


Bring Me to Life

by Paian



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Original Character(s), Other, POV Original Character, Stargate: Continuum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paian/pseuds/Paian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After <i>Continuum</i>, Baal's former host gets reacquainted with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring Me to Life

**Author's Note:**

> For [MMoM](http://mmom.dreamwidth.org/) at Dreamwidth.

By the fourth time the crystal walls around his bed have filled with the bluish light of this system's primary star, he has regained enough coordination to attempt self-pleasuring in the hope that it will energize and awaken his body, and speed his return to full function.

He slides his hands down to the join of his legs under the loose soft trousers that are all they have thus far offered him to wear. His private parts have not been private for more than two thousand years, as the Tok'ra reckon time, and he expects his own seductive touch to lift him flailing like an inexperienced boy into too-quick climax. If centuries of depraved abuse have ruined him, he supposes he will find out in short order as his manhood recoils from the stimulus, retracting and pulling up, shrinking away now that it is his consciousness processing the sensory input, not the invader's. In the event, neither response ensues. He lifts his member onto his belly, strokes once up its length, and perceives only the dull contact of flesh on flesh, no more exciting than his toes rubbing together or his tongue shifting against his palate.

Perhaps, he thinks wryly, he ought to have begun with the simpler, more primal act of releasing urine and manually aiming the stream. But he has no need to relieve himself at present, and although he cannot recall anything of his old life, although the labyrinthine passages of his imagination still feel more vital to him than vague images of whatever ancient world he was abducted from, although after millennia of occupation by a foreign entity with its own passionate obsessions and imperatives he no longer remembers his own _name_ , he is aware that he possessed certain characteristics, and one of them is that he was a competent lover. Somewhere in muscle and bone is the memory of those skills, and as long as his body is not too elementally traumatized to respond, they should be sufficient to his purpose.

In any event, there is no alternative. He cannot count on the resurgence of earliest instinct -- at first even the infant's reflexive skills were unavailable to him, as without intense concentration he could not so much as suckle at a water bottle's teat, and every attempt at suction ended in a dribbling loss of all control -- and he cannot stir himself with imaginary conjurings: he survived twenty centuries of impotent paralysis by constructing intricate architectures in the deep recesses of his mind, retreating as needed into a self-induced waking dream of paradise, and if he begins to fantasize, at all, he will slide away into a place from whence there is no guarantee of return. The upper stories of this facility are said, by those who do not yet realize that he comprehends all the invader's languages, to be brimful of catatonic, post-extraction shells in which nothing of the host survives. He suspects that a goodly number of their rightful occupants are hiding deep in their own minds. He cannot liberate them if on the very threshold of reenfranchisement he foolishly winds up trapped deep in his own. He will not risk indulging reverie until he has made provision for rescue.

He draws his legs up bent and lets his knees fall slightly open under a tenting of bedcovers. He closes one hand with care around his penis and reaches the other down to cup his scrotum. Inside the sac, his testicles are the hardness of marbles, but his genitals as a whole are otherwise sweetly relaxed, and pleasant enough to hold. His penis is shapely and smooth, and a commendable length. All is nestled in a luxuriant bed of hair. He shifts his hands to swirl his fingertips through the hair, scratch gently along the creases of his groin. His touch ignites no fire in his loins, but he squirms at the tactile pleasure of it. His skin prickles, gooseflesh running up his inner thighs, down the backs, across his buttocks. He chases the prickles with the pads of his fingers, light touches running like liquid over his legs, and then his hips, his flanks.

He ventures upward, tensing his abdominal muscles so that he can follow their ridges up to his ribs, trace the arching bones that protect his heart, caress his nipples. He comes down his sides with the backs of his fingers, a feathery scratch of nails from armpits to rump, and massages gently in the hollow of each hip, the dimples that dip below the string cinch at the waist of the loose pants. The rubbing makes his groin contract. The movement stretches the soft material across his penis in a delicious combination of texture and tension. He shifts a hand to the center of his pelvis and rubs the cloth into himself in long, leisurely downward strokes.

Patience is rewarded at last -- as though his current situation were not proof enough of that! -- and his member begins to firm. With slow deliberation, he increases the pressure of his strokes, and feels the pressure of blood increase within the shaft, a push against a push, a stimulation of resistance.

 _Now_ his groin floods with heat. _Now_ the crown of his sex begins to throb.

He wants to fling the bedclothes away and push the trousers down, revel in the kiss of dawn's breath on parts too long confined, prop up on a bedcushion and _look_ ... but _he_ has been too long confined, and while he is prone to neither shyness nor modesty, he cannot yet face the prospect of being exposed to the view of even the most compassionate minders; under the covers is relative safety and privacy, and he needs those now as much as he needs liberty. He lifts the front of his pants instead, slides his dominant hand back in, and with an unvoiced groan of appreciation molds his grip to the contours of his manhood.

He relishes the feel of it in his hand. He relishes the feel of his hand around it. He pumps slowly, applying rhythmic pressure down to the root, then up to the head. Oh, there -- the head feels best, taut and ripe and ready -- achingly sensitive, unbearably responsive to pressure, motion -- it will be only moments now, extensive exploration will have to wait for a future session, he cannot last, the pleasure -- gods, the pleasure -- he'd forgotten --

Climax takes him from below, arching him off the bed, squeezing his essence from him in tight, exquisite pulses, bathing his skin with his seed. At its peak he gasps a word; as he sinks back into the mattress, twitching through the last throes of ecstasy, he thinks it might have been a name. Not his own name, if so; he was a brazen, egoistical king, but not to the degree where he would cry his own name in orgasm, even masturbatory --

He pushes up sitting with a rough shove, breathing hard. His chin comes up. The monochrome outlines of medical equipment and hospice furnishings come into stark relief. The dawn breeze through the window carries a scent of desert flowers that bloomed overnight. His nostrils flare. His back straightens. His jaw firms.

_I was a king._

A cold, savage smile spreads slowly across his face.

His own smile.

A beginning.


End file.
